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His Best Friend

What if, during (human) life, Edward had had a best friend? A girl best friend, never more than a sister, but still there. What if he had thought that she was dead for almost 90 years? And what if he found her just when he needed her the most? Chapter 3 is up!!

This is told from two points of view, "His POV" and "Her POV". It's about Edward after he left Bella in Forks, and before he went to Rio (later Italy). None of these characters (except one) are mine. They belong to Stephenie Meyer, and no copyright infringement was intended. I'm just a normal addicted teenage girl.

1. Chapter 1

Rating 5/5   Word Count 540   Review this Chapter

His POV:

Chicago, 2006:

I looked up at the white Illinois sky. Shoot, I thought, as large, fat white flakes fell onto my face and settled into my exaggeratedly long eyelashes. Snow had never been my favorite type of weather. But then again, snow and ice had broughtyou closer tono, don’t think about her,Edward, I told myself.

I needed to get inside somewhere. The cold didn’t bother me, but I would have drawn too much attention to myself standing out alone in the snow. I looked around. The closest building I saw was a small, nearly empty antique shop.

The snow was falling heavier now, and I was walking faster than I probably should have. I need her, I thought as I walked. More than I need anything else. I closed my eyes. I saw her face. The most beautiful face I had ever known. More beautiful even than Rosalie.

I pulled on the handle of the door of the antique shop and walked in. The fat, sweaty, red-faced old man stood behind the counter was helping a small, fair-skinned brunette look at an old photograph. It was of three teenagers.

"Now this is a fine piece from 1918, and—," the old man began.

"Just give it to me," the young woman cut him off. Just give me the picture, you old fool, she thought.

Either there was a personal connection between her and the photo, or she was a very avid collector. Humans, I grimaced. So fickle, so believing.

But then the heater kicked on. Her scent was blown across the room to. I realized what she was. She seemed to suddenly be aware of me, too.

She turned to face me. Recognition dawned slightly on her face. But that wasn’t what shocked me.

It was her eyes.

Her POV:

"That one," I said, pointing at a picture from 1918 in the case. It was of three teenagers: a 15-year-old girl, a 17-year-old girl, and a 17-year-old-boy. Cornelia Walker, 15; Mary-Anne Walker, 17; and (my heart sank) Edward Masen, 17.

I remembered that day so clearly: June 20th 1918. Just a few months before he would die. My birthday. His birthday. Officially 15 and 17. It was agreed that our parents would take us together to have our pictures taken. It was a tradition in each family to have photos taken on birthdays. It was mine and Edward’s birthday that day. We’d let my older sister, Mary-Anne, come along.

We had four pictures taken: one of me, one of Edward, one of Edward and I together, and one of Mary-Anne, Edward, and I.

"Lady? ‘Ey lady, you wanna see this picture ‘er not?" aroused me from my reminisce.

"Oh, yes. Here I’ll take that," I extended my hand.

"Sorry, can’t letcha do that."


"Yer not trained to handle these things!"

"Whatever. How much?"


I took my money out of my purse and handed him $400. I was vaguely aware of the door opening and someone coming in.

"Now this fine piece is from 1918, and--,"

"Just give it to me," I snapped.

The last thing I wanted was to hear my own history. He gave me a dirty look and handed me my photo. A whirring told me the heater had turned itself on. I turned to leave, and he stood there.

Eyes just like mine.